The Tale of Haci Ali aka ‘Hi Jolly’ Scene One: Al-Amman


The final minaret call from the Muzzein in central Amman was just finishing. Haci Ali was sitting in a cafe roaking a hookah with his friend Mahmoud Al Ammani.

“It’s hopeless 😩 for me here. I’ve got no wife, no prospects. My latest camel (pronounced jemmel) 🐫 gig down to Yemen 🇾🇪 barely paid enough. There’s a whole world 🌎 out there beyond this empire. I want to go to Amrikkiyyah. The Wild West. Cowboys 🤠 Indians, you know. My grandfather 👴 told me when I was a little boy that I would travel far but never leave the desert 🌵 and I would see many strange things. So I would travel from India 🇮🇳 to Morocco 🇲🇦 but I forgot that there was also a desert in Amerikkiyyah. Maybe my story is not yet written. Maybe I will find a girl to marry.”

Hi Jolly Song

Mahmoud took a long roak on his hookah. “I heard the girls in the Wild West are very beautiful. They come from all around the world to seek their fortune 🔮. But it’s so far away. You will be very out of place there. Listen, my friend, strangely enough, I was in Jaffa and there was an American Army Officer looking for camel 🐫 drivers.”

Haci Ali looked up. “We’ve got to get to Jaffa right away!”

“Ameikkiyyah is a strange place, they won’t know what to think of you. But you do know the camel 🐫 very well. You can teach them. But Let’s hire some horses 🐴 and get to Jaffa.”


Captain Montesquieu Braithwaite Talleyrand, IV of Philadelphia was roaking a Cigar with fellow Captain Beauregard St. John Barraclough of New Orleans Parish. They were standing on the porch of a wooden building at Fort Destitute in Olde El Paso.

“Well I’ll be a N_____ Demonic Black-Hearted Murderous Cheating Jew Devil Mongrel Stooge Serpent.” He said, using an old fashioned but charming Jew-hating epithet. “If it ain’t old Captain Fancy Pants 👖 man of wealth and leisure from old Pennsylvania, long time since the war in Mexico 🇲🇽 City 🌃 my boy.” Holding out his sweaty hand.

“You were always charming son, long time no voir. I’m surprised you haven’t made major yet. You have the ambition of Cassius, but the manners of Hannibal. I remember Old Mexico 🇲🇽 well myself, in fact, we’re right across the border.” He offered the Louisianan (pronounced Lousy-Anne-In) a cigar.

“Well no matter, I 👂 heard tell that them shit-covered politician desk-riding boys in the War Department back in Washington want to hire camels 🐫 to get acrosst (not a typo) the desert 🌵. That’s the dumbest most sockdologizing thing I ever heard.”

“Watch your satanic god-hating filthy bowel language! Don’t use the sock____ word, it’s the shittiest, most shit-covered cuss word ever spoken!” Said the Philadelphian.


The crescent 🌙 moon was rising over the ancient houses 🏡 of old Jaffa.

The camel 🐫 drivers had been selected after demonstrating their skills. They sat quietly neglected 😩 in the darkened courtyard of the old Fort, awaiting steam passage in donkey-goat faeces-class steerage to the Great Satan (pronounced Amerikkiyyah).

The Turkish Officer prepared the hot Jezvaa of Kava on the fire 🔥 to pour into El-Finja’aniyyah for his savage American guest.

“So this is the collection of useless shitheads and hopelessly unmarried camel 🐫 driving morons who want to go all the way across the ocean 🌊 to get killed by savages in the Wild 😜 West? Well that’s one less burden on the empire. I’ll sign off.” Said Captain Dogan Ferencz.

“I thank you kindly.” Said Major Rufus Mallwander of Stamford Connecticut. “Do any of these poor hairy, shitty, smelly, greasy, unwashed devils speak English?”

“Not a jebi word, not a single jebi word of Shi’ita’anic English devil-speak my dear American friend. Turkish Kiva?”(pronounced coffee ☕️).

“Excellent coffee ☕️ effendi!” He said in a patronizing manner as if the Turk was a shitty savage.


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Therapeutic Calming Meditation in Frightening Times for My Readers: Weimar Cabaret Expressionist Nihilism


[Botendaddy bow 🙇 s low with a wave of his top hat 🎩.]

“Damen und Herren, Wilkommen und Gruß Gött, many of my readers are frightened and filled with great angst by events we read in the news.

Herr Doktor 👨‍⚕️ Doktor 👨‍⚕️ Sigmund Freüd

Allow me to provide you with a therapeutic calming form of meditation. It is called Weimar Cabaret Existential Expressionist Deontological Nihilism.

The great German 🇩🇪 Expressionist Painter 👩‍🎨 Ludwig Meidner would paint 🎨 apocalyptic scenes of upheaval in destroyed, burning cities while Top Hat 🎩 ted Kapitalists, shrill jingoistic Imperialists, shrieking rigid doctrinaire Marxists and Pickelhauben Generälen fought in the swirling skies above a naked, passive, groveling depiction of the artist 👨‍🎤 on the streets below being deliciously man-penetrated by the spermatozöische Gemeinschaftlichen Apokalyptische Szene.

Hoxter Portrait – work of Meidner

I beseech you to reject all forms of news media and embrace apathetic 😐 hopeless 😩 post-apocalyptic, detached, passive deontological, existentielle, Hegelianischeren nihilism and merely writhe naked as society devolves into utter chaos from which we shall create einere neuen Kunst 🎭! Einen neue Ausdrückkunst für den Neues Jahrhundert! (Shrieking like a Valkyrie – pronounced ‘while-kai-rhee’.)

You see my dear friends, a new detached, apathetic, nihilist, post-apocalyptic art is the bridge (der Brücke) from man to the higher man which is exposed in my neue play with a tri-alectic discourse of deontological expressionism in Gas ⛽️ III based on the Werken of Georg Kaiser and Berthold Brecht.

Herr Admiral von Reuter Herö of Apathetik Deontologikalischer Nihilismus  😐

In this emotionless three-act play we find in a German First World War trench line amidst a stack of smoldering corpses, sharing and roaking a pack of Zigaretu (a delightfully healthy Täbäk grown at exceptionally high altitudes in the Bayernisches Alpen and Hand-rolled by neo-proto Neänderthals), none other than future Bavarian Marxist State Komissar Eugen Leviné, espousing the position of total Kommunist Revolutionary Marxist Principles, Herr Leutnant Hugo Güttmänn a Jew! Eineren Jüden! presenting the cause of order through Imperialism theough the beloved silly 😜 Hohenzölleren Kaiser and finally the shrieking, demonic future Fuhrer himself, Korporale A. Hitler dispassionately arguing the position of National Socialism.

There are several characters who visit the trench, such as Ernst 😒 Ludwig Kirchner, Franz Marc, Guillaume Apollinaire, Ernest Hemingway and the eminent Philosopher, Wält Disney.

As always, the terrifying spectre of ghastly, hideous demonic racist Woodrow Wilson rises above the set laughing satanically uttering horrific incantations to the fabulous Yog Sothoth!

Shrieking head of Demonic racist Wilson with genocidal Versailles Treaty

I ask members of the audience to now completely disrobe, and writhe passively, apathetically and resignedly in the aisles as our drama commences.

Vielen Dank 😊 meinerem Geehrteren Herren und Dämen

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Botendaddy explains the Alt-movements

“I’m just going to jog today.” I said to the Crazy 😜 Nerd 🤓 Girl 👸 . No speed, just hills, heat and humidity.”


Frog 🐸-gerish Landscape

We trudged slowly up the hill and towards the county line. The road was like a cross between ‘Frogger’ ™ and Death 💀 Race 🏁 2000©

“You suck, watching you run 🏃 is tortuous, you should be on alt-rancidadultdiaper or alt-bowelmovement or alt-hideousyeast.” She said.

We were joined by (NEW CHARACTER ALERT 🚨) weird, mystical Barbados 🇧🇧 technology guy.

“Ya should be on alt-smokingtheganja or alt-rastafari or alt-inthenameofemporeraselassiehailietheone or alt-whatchootalkinaboutwillis or alt-yougonnaeatthat?” Quod the Barbadian.

“We weren’t even close to the midpoint which was also the high point ☝️ at the county line.

“What were you alt-bitching about before WMBTG?”

“Ah IT! Who designs alt-shittysoftware so it’s like a combination of Artifical Intelligence and Centipede? How do they always anticipate (incorrectly) precisely what I don’t want to do? Why are the buttons still moving around when I try to click on them? Who designed this, an alt-stupidmoron with alt-nobraininhishead? He should have alt-listenedinengineeringschool. It’s like alt-you’vegottabekidding?” He continued.



“So, TIL that anywhere north of BMI 25 is a death 💀 sentence and that osteoarthritis in the knees is caused by obesity and sedentary lifestyle. That is alt-runningincreasesbonedensity.” I said.

“Did you just alt-shityourpants? I smell a Bowel Genie. You need to alt-changeyour diaper.” Said the CNG

A car 🚗 swerved off the road and we had to leap out of the way. A man waved from the car, it was Screechiamous Bang 💥! World 🌎 ‘ s alt-shittiestdriver.

Our times were too horrible to record: alt-reallyfuckinslow alt-shittyrunning and alt-lackofeffort.

We ended up at 4.72 miles our time is alt-betterlefttotheages.

“Hey let’s alt-getsomething to eat.” Said the Barbadian IT guy. (The nerd girl is hot).” He whispered.

“I heard that, you alt-carribbeanpervert and alt-letsgooutsometime.” Said the CNG winking at the the WBITG.

“I think we all better get a shower and get changed because alt-ijustshitonmyself.” I pontificated.

“Chai Latte?”

Peace be the Botendaddy


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New Words for Real Scenarios

“Botendaddy. No one cares about anything you say or do. No one cares about your Teenage Hitler or ANTIFA stickers or your horse 🐴 crap 💩 mislabeled photos or your stupid running 🏃 stories or your bullshit sex


Three Westies

stories. Even a hooker would turn down money 💰 from you. Any woman would chew their arm off to get away from you.”

She continued. I noticed she was entirely nude, standing uninvited in one of the porticos of my estate 🏡.

“No self respecting or even non self respecting LBGTQ+A would give you the time of day. You are hideous at best, the monstrous thing of children’s nightmares at worst. Your writing is drivel, your reviews are the most juvenile literary bowel movement. Write about something different.”

The No-one Cares Lady had returned. And she was still a total (use your imagination to come up with a word to describe her… it’s just easier that way)

“OK, what about new words for common scenarios?”

Snog or Snogging – when you let a really old but nice guy walk in front of your car at the strip mall parking lot.

Flamtatious – When you walk into a public bathroom and the stall is so shit-covered and the toilet so clogged with filthy bacteria-stoked shit that you have to find another stall.

Traumistic – When someone lacking emotional intelligence or empathy blocks the view of the items you want to buy at a store by standing there too long without making a decision, i.e., blocking the ice cream 🍦 flavors so you can’t see what to buy.

Sheebaa’aa – when you are trying to buy Kaluha at the liquor store and some pretentious twat puts all their wine bottles on the conveyor and starts twatting about talking to the guy waiting on you and interrupting your transaction and invading your personal space 🚀.

Westangaraagh – Walking 🚶 three Westies at one time.

“I have one for you, Yon Botendaddy: V’naabatwiroo – When a woman has lost all hope, all dignity, all self-respect and she is overwhelmed with a desire to be sullied, degraded, used and slimed by a hideous, aged, glowing-green, freakish, macabre so-called man who has the temerity to call himself the Botendaddy (Ancient Welsh for man of the earth 🌏 mother fertility goddess).


Footbridge across the moat of Utonic Estates

“F@&$ me goddamn you! No one cares about your stupid definitions! Can’t you see I’m crazy 😜 about you? PLAY MISTY FOR ME! I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!”


[Entering from stage right, roaking a filterless gemel 🐫 in an FDR cigarette holder, then bowing low with a sweep of his top hat 🎩]

“So my dear readers, I was just about to @&$# the No-one Cares Lady, when I looked behind me and there stood… THE BOTEN-DAUGHTER!”

“Dad, coffee ☕️ is ready in the great room, please join me and have Jones show this naked, crazy, (looking down in horror) hairy 🐱 twat out.”

“Hot Rum Horchata Latté?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

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The Botendaddy Abides, Part Roku and a Riverside Run

They were doing crew down by the river. I was running with the Tattooed Canadian Chick 🐥. It was very humid.


A lone rower

“How do you run 🏃 in that enormous yeasty adult diaper?” She asked.

“Listen, we’re just running for distance not for time. The humidity is murder. I hate nothing more in sport than professionals in the Olympics. It’s disgusting. The only reason why they let them in is because we got cheated out a basketball 🏀 gold medal 🥇 in 1972. We forced in the so-called ‘dream team’. It embarrassed 😩 America in front of the world 🌎 and made us look petty and weak. I love the Olympic stories about the guy who fell in the Marathon and got hurt but kept running even as the closing ceremonies were held, and Eddie the Eagle 🦅 and Vasili Alexeev who lifted logs at a mining camp and the Miracle on Ice or Sugar Ray Leonard’s boxing 🥊 or Paavo Nurmi’s tireless running or the great Frank Klammer’s amazing downhill run. It’s about competing and doing your very best and having a dream, not some rigged commercialized bullshit and big countries crushing tiny little countries. ” I preached.


The river

“Do you see that lone girl rowing 🚣 down there on a shitty humid morning in that acrid tributary? She gets it. No funding, no support just a dream. That’s the Olympic spirit. I used to play ice hockey 🏒I was Captain 👩‍✈️ of every team for which I ever played. Why? I loved the ice, I loved to skate. I could play for 12 hours straight and never get tired or bored 😐.” I continued.

“I understand. I played college basketball 🏀 but I would have played at the YMCA.”

We hit about 9:45 at the ramps to the Island.

“I’m a horrible runner 🏃 kid. I’m essentially crippled, broken legs, pelvis, spine, but I run because I can. I’m alive when I run. My shitty 7:59 mile is to me what 3:59 was to Jim Ryun. It’s mine and no-one else’s.” I said.


We could see the end in sight. As would be just perfect for dramatic literary value (and a soon to be major motion picture in Teknikolor™ und Zenzurround® vom We’renot2jewish ™®© Productions, Produced by Schloimo Ben-Boingboomtschak and Directed by Schmuel Cohensteinberger with musical score by Vittorio Antonelli WaLuigi S’ghiarriacchelli with Japanese subtitles with Cooperstown, NY scenes filmed on location in Kilimanjaro Tanzania), it was down to just me and Quentin.

To the winner? Each team of five would share $10,000.00, (equivalent to 36 billion dollars in today’s money with $46.37 left for each runner after New York State, Otsego County and Cooperstown Village municipal waste collection tax) and the leader of each team would {CENSORED FOR EXTREME *HOT* OBSCENITY per NY DEPT. OF AGRICULTURE PUBLIC LAW NUMBER 31-12 of September 3rd 1805, at ALBANY} the other team leader in *hot* sensuous man-on-man action.

With only a couple of hundred yards to go, Quentin was staggering. A crowd of thousands was cheering us on in a bad, fake Hollywood slow motion crowd panning.

“I’m not… going… to make it… and I was so close!” Said Quentin. “You…shit-covered misfits are going to win and then you’re going to {CENSORED} me in my {CENSORED}.”


(Botendaddy enters from stage left [whichever side that’s on] in tie and tails with a Weimar Era top hat, bows low to the cabaret audience)

“Hi, beloved readers. My readers are the *hottest*, beautifulest, handsomest, runningest, cusine-inest, most talented and perceptive reeaders in the entire Blogzoversphereowhatthef*&kever. ”

“In the true spirit of sport, in keeping with my deeply held beliefs, I held up Quentin all the way to the finish line. With yards to go, I threw him to the ground, crossed the finish line, won the race, went back, dragged him across the finish line, then in one of the most epic man-on-man events ever, I {CENSORED FOR EXTREME HOTNESS} right in the {CENSORED}. And he lived happily ever after.”

“The Cooperstown team defeated the wicked Schoharie team of red-hot sexy rich blue-bloods because our team of freaks and misfits who were actually pre-selected Marathon-running ringers, beat their pre-selected ringers in an unrivaled epic of mass cheating the likes of which has never been seen before or since. But that was way back before the turn of the century. Ah the smell of it!”


“Botendaddy, you talk all this Jewish stuff, but there’s no way on earth you’re even remotely Jewish. Half your great-grandparents had platinum blonde hair and blue or green eyes. This is some bullshit thing to fit in with Manhattan Litterati and Hollywood Elites (pronounced Eeeee-Lyghtze) who think you are a shit-covered, dairy-country upstate New York, simpleton shit-bag. Third-rate critic, fourth-rate quasi-illiterate S.J. Perelman-wannabe writer.” Said the TTC. “I heard you f*&%ed the 5h1t out of that Crazy Nerd Girl. Now you’ll never get rid of her. In fact, a little bird told me you f*&%4d her better than you f&%$#d me?!?!? Look at my goddamned t1t5!” She shrieked, opening her weird spandex jogging shirt and exposing her firm glistening sweaty yet heavily tattooed t1tt135.

“So my dear readers. If&%$3d her. Right there in the bushes, out on the island, right down by the river. We were almost arrested, but she showed the cops her t1t5, and they let us go with a warning and a few selfies with the TTC except the gay cop took a selfie with me. Wait, hold on, what are so upset about? You all wanted me to f&%$ her! So I did! You practically begged me to do it! You egged me on! How disingenuous! (is that even a word?) Hypocrites all! Ah the smell of it”

“Iced Mocha with Honey?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

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The Grand Finalé: Does Botendaddy Win?

Everyone else in the race 🏁 was boring me into an absolute stupor. I was sorry 😐 that I ever took the challenge. The Marathon ´wall’ and malaise had set in. I didn’t even care if I was a victim of red *hot* man-rhaigpe by the weird *queer-hot* Quentin. I wanted to fall asleep 😴 in the middle of the freezing road.


Bullshit Otsego County stock photo

“This is not the cold the wett-er.” Said the one mute runner in a Norswodish accent. “I am the PhD student 👨‍🎓 Screechiamous 💥 Bang from the Cornell. I am from the Osssslo. The s is soft. Cold is the 62 below the Fahrenheit. This race 🏁 is boring and stu-pid, Ja?”

“Yes, and it was my idea 💡. My team hates me, the other team wants to blister me in the r3ctum with enormous man-love, the Africans and golf 🏌 pros are mercenary runners, the software video thing is f@&$$d up, No one  brought water 💦 or energy bars and my brain is frozen solid. By the way I f@&king HATE the song: Itchykoo Park, it suck rancid goat 🐐 balls 🏀 sickenly sweet horse 🐴 💩 crap.”

“I tot-ally agree, and Abba sucked rancid reindeer tea-tackles too.” Echoed Bang 💥

“You complain a lot.” Said the mute golf 🏌 caddy to me. You always complained. You were my Forward Observation Lieutenant in the War. You complained constantly. It was entertaining. We had a major combat briefing for the big push and you were fast asleep 😴 you would risk death 💀 just  to avoid listening 👂 but when the war started you knew what to do. I’m PFC Johnson, do you remember me?”

“Yeah you went AWOL at Ft. Hood. I thought 💭 you were brain-damaged. I never paid any attention to that combat briefing, orders and intel mumbo jumbo. I was happier in the shit-covered Jaguarundi infested jungles of Central America fighting rigid doctrinaire communists, slimy drug runners 🏃 and macho Predator Monsters (TM), than sitting in some shitty oily desert 🌵. Now I hang out in Manhattan with self-involved literati and fashionista waifs and I can barely remember what it was like to be even remotely interesting.”


We hit the twenty-four mile mark.

I heard Soundgarden’s ‘Never Named’ 🐶 blaring from more hidden loudspeakers 📢.

“Sir you will always be interesting. I was always mad 😡 ly in love 😍 with you.” Said the mute guy.

“Is anyone here not queer?” I gasped.

A couple of spectators raised their hands.

“Anyone? Anyone? No?”

It ended up with Quentin and I holding up the ‘rear’, the computer 💻 video board at 25.2 miles (Not kilometers, unless it’s the 11th of Frimaire, ah Talleyrand!) showed that it was up to the two of us, as Quentin and I had identical handicap times.



“Botendaddy. This is boring now. I’m going to $tarbuck$ and get a mocha. I waited my whole life for this? What a letdown. I may never f@&$ again. All my orifices are slimed. I have a spermatozoa aftertaste in my mouth 👄. My hair is sticky. Who cares. Is every man as creepy as you? I feel so… so… dirty. I’m so ashamed of myself and of you, you withered carnival 🎡 freak show spectacle. You should be in the circus between the bearded lady and the 🐶 dog-faced boy. I pity you, you remind me of Gollum or Mr. Burns or the Crypt-Keeper. I need to be decontaminated or get an exorcism, I’m just gonna let myself out. You suck.”

Said the Crazy 😜 nerd 🤓 girl. “Call me? Soon?” She inquired.

“A woman loved me once, you know. Vanilla Latté?”

Peace be the Botendaddy


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Everyone is Helpful Until you Ask for Help: Oneonta to Cooperstown Marathon Part Trois

The 19.75 mile marker. The traditional 3/4 point of the Marathon.

Both teams still in a statistical dead heat, the African runners still alongside each other long since crossed the finish line way ahead of us and doubled back to cheer us on (for the prize 💰).

No one else was in and the eight remaining runners were packed together in a tight, quiet frozen group as the air temperature dropped under -4 FAHRENHEIT! (not Celsius, which no-one knows what that means, except Bold Naopleon Buonaparte on the 37th of Brumaire in year V of the Empire) Anyway, it was cold as 84115.

The final leg to Cooperstown (Bullshit stock photo)

About thirty different people promised us various energy foods and drinks at each 6 miles or so. None of them showed up, why you Ask? BECAUSE EVERYONE’S HELPFUL UNTIL YOU ASK FOR HELP!

“CCI Pluviôse XIV is today’s date! Damn the Julian Calendar you _______s!” I shrieked. The cold and pain had gotten to me.

“Ah the smell of it! I am madly in love with you Yon Botendaddy!” Cried the GGFNR!

“Me first!” Said the BFFR.

“What the f@&$ is ploo-vee-yahz?” Asked the deaf dude desperately trying to read 👄 lips.

“You shit-covered carnival 🎡 freaks are never going to win! I will despoil the Botendaddy! Ah the beauty of raw man-flesh!” Screamed Quentin.

The mute bad guy said nothing. The non-descript other guy from the Rich kids race 🏁 team was equally mute. I think 💭 he was a caddy at their club during the golf 🏌 season who they paid to run 🏃. We were getting close to Cooperstown. The crowds were getting bigger and cheering for the Botendaddy when we were joined by Braithwaite Smythe of the English Broadcasting Company who had been running in a winter ❄️ ‘mac’ the entire way along with a camera 🎥 crew.

BS: “Botendaddy, fresh off of the disaster in the Barthelona Olympics in Spain 🇪🇸 . How do you feel about this challenge competition? Will you win and go twatting about? Or lose and be deliciously man-rhaigped? Ah the smell of it!”

“BD: “Its in the hands of the consul now, the assembly the 18th Brumaire something something Celsius.”


“It’s a good thing I can’t reproduce because my uterus is literally filled with your hideous old man spermatozoa. Ah the taste of it!” Said the Crazy 😜 Nerd 🤓 Girl. Go again?”

“Hot Chocolate 🍫?”

Peace be the Botendaddy


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